So she pushes herself up and out of bed, bleary-eyed. Pads over to the armoire, pulls out her suitcase, takes out all her clothes—again—then unlocks the hidden panel. Pulls out a specimen jar, twists open the top.
Thinks a moment, gets the opened bottle of Jack Daniel’s, takes another swig, then caps it. The funny thing is that she was completely dry throughout her marriage; the drinking started after the divorce. A part of her knows it’s a dangerous crutch, but the other doesn’t really care anymore.
The whiskey warms her stomach, makes her feel just a touch more grounded in the present. She gets to her feet, approaches the first gecko slowly. Her shadow follows her. The gecko’s eyes are large dark orbs bulging out of its head, mouth curled slightly upward, which makes it seem like it’s smiling. And the skin is actually slightly translucent. She can see its tiny lump of gray stomach, the fine scaffolding of its spine. Flutter of a tiny heart.
She’s heard they jump. She hopes it doesn’t jump.
Quickly she tries to brush it into the jar, and startles its companion into running up the wall, wriggling like a serpent, and so fast: in seconds, it’s already on the ceiling. At first she thinks she’s got the other—one at least—but then the damn thing climbs right up and out of the jar with its sticky, webbed toes and launches itself onto the floor, scurrying away toward the chair propped up under the doorknob, slipping under the door.
In the cup, something else wriggles.
The tail.
It is, as Irene described, fascinating and disturbing to see something that isn’t alive, not in the traditional sense, moving. It twists and turns and flops over on itself, curls and uncurls, like the tail is in the fight of its life, like it too might jump out and wriggle its way under the door.
A wave of nausea hits. Her knees feel like they might give out.
But she can’t look away. A living dead thing. Finally the tail starts to lose steam, like it’s realized it’s dying, and must give in to the inevitable. A few final quivers, then it’s still. She gives the jar a shake, just to be sure.
Put it in the trash can? She doesn’t think she could possibly go back to sleep—not with that . . . thing inside. No, better to dump it outside, let the cycle of life have its way.
She heads for the door. Feels something soft land on her shoulder. Julia stops, turns her head, and sees the second gecko staring at her with a curious intensity, flicking its tongue out to taste the air.
Chirp, chirp, chirp.
Her heart starts to beat faster. She doesn’t quite know what to do—they’re so damn fast and the prospect of facing another wriggling tail isn’t appealing. The gecko takes a hesitant step forward. Cocks its head. She gets the strangest sense that it regards her with an equal intelligence.
Chirp, chirp, chirp.
Something soft and small lands on her head, and she cringes, brushes it off—another gecko. Skin pale as milk, it tumbles to the dark floor, its tail separating on impact. She watches the gecko scurry away with just a nub where its tail used to be, while the tail writhes and twists and flips.
Jesus Christ.
Chirp, chirp, chirp. Again something lands on her shoulder—another one, it hops down her elbow as three run out from under the bureau. One jumps on her bare foot, tries to climb her leg.
“Ugh! Fuck!”
She shakes the gecko off her leg—it lands on its back, twists quickly onto its belly—and then geckos start falling around her like rain.
Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp. A whole symphony that’s nearly deafening.
She looks up and the ceiling is writhing with geckos, so many they’re crawling up and over and around each other, a tapestry of rippling white reptilian flesh.
She drops the specimen jar on the floor where it smashes, and—no . . . impossible—sees that the tail inside the jar isn’t a tail anymore; it’s a gecko again, one that tries to run up her other leg, while more drop on her head, her shoulders—she can feel something crawl down the back of her neck, under her shirt, tickling along her shoulder blades.
She bolts for the door—feet registering soft flesh squishing beneath her toes—but when she pulls the chair out from under the knob, tries it, the knob is firmly locked, or stuck, or broken. She rattles it, shakes it, desperately pulls on it with all of her might, but the damn thing won’t turn, and now there are so many geckos she’s practically ankle-deep in them—where the hell are they coming from!—they race up the walls, flood out of the armoire, the bathroom, and cover the lampshade, dimming the warm light. They climb up her legs, fall onto her shoulders, creep along her arms, and she madly tries to brush them off, but as she does their tails fall off, joining the wriggling fray on the floor as her heart pounds—the window.
She wades through the geckos, reaches the window, hands frantically searching for the lock—there is none, it’s just a single sheet of glass, no way to open it, escape.
And then she sees something outside. A girl, standing just under the canopy of a palm tree. She wears a simple white shift, no shoes. A shadow obscures her face.
Julia pounds on the window to get her attention, “Over here! Let me out! Open the door! Open the door!”
The girl shifts her weight from one foot to the other, considering.
Julia pounds on the window so hard her hands hurt. She’s surprised the glass doesn’t break, fracture. “Please!” she shouts. “Please!”
But the girl just turns her back and slips into the dark leaves of the jungle, disappears.
And Christ, the geckos are now knee-high, she’s going to drown in the things if she doesn’t escape . . . but wait. . . .
Something’s not right, her feet don’t feel right, they feel like . . .
. . . like they’re standing in mud. Distantly she hears the rush of wind in the trees, a sound that grows louder, eventually overpowering the cacophony of geckos chirping. The bungalow shimmers, and black spots gather at the corner of her eyes until they take over completely. She smells something fragrant, like a night flower blooming, feels the soft breath of a breeze tickle her neck.
She opens her eyes.
Finds herself in jungle brush, facing a low wall constructed entirely of lava rocks, more of that white mildew or fungus running up and along it like veins. Two bamboo poles crossed in front of her, each capped with a battered white ball of some kind. The poles look old, weathered, like they’ve been there for centuries.
Is this real?
She looks down at her feet—she’s standing in a puddle of mud, scratches on her legs. She absently reaches into her hair, feels the debris of leaves and twigs. Overhead the palm trees sway; she hears the rush of the sea breeze through the fronds. Insects buzzing.
I was dreaming. I must have been sleepwalking.
But that’s never happened to her before. Insomnia, yes, but finding herself outside . . . Where is she anyway?
She turns and sees the moon is higher in the sky, still bright enough that it illuminates the cove, the cabins by the pier, the small cluster of bungalows on land that overlook the beach. She must be about a good quarter mile away. It shakes her, to have been compelled so far by her subconscious.
Chirp.
A gecko clings to a nearby leaf. She never would have seen it if it hadn’t made a sound—it’s just the shadow of an outline against the background of the leaf.
It jumps away from the leaf, onto the wall, and then behind it, into the land that, according to Isaac, is forbidden to enter.
CHAPTER 11
RAP, RAP, RAP. THE SOUND startles her awake, or not awake so much as aware, since she wasn’t really able to go back to sleep and spent the rest of the night lying on the bed, combing through Irene’s notebook, looking for something, anything, that might explain what happened to her. No reference, though, to sleepwalking. Maybe that was on one of the pages ripped out. The nightmare had felt so real—but nothing was out of place when she’d gotten back to the cabin, no geckos, no broken specimen jar or shattered glass on
the floor. Only the door was slightly ajar. The chair she’d put under the knob had been neatly placed to the side.
It was all so unsettling. She’d downed the contents of two of the mini Jack Daniel’s bottles after firmly locking the door again, propping the chair back under the knob.
Then, at some point while she was reading, her eyes must have drifted shut, because morning light now glows through the plain muslin curtain, and the notebook lies facedown on the comforter.
Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap.
Shit. She didn’t shower and her feet are still covered in dried mud—there are muddy footprints on the immaculate floor, mud on the comforter, on her clothes that she wore to the dinner the night before. A few dried leaves still in her hair.
RAP. RAP. RAP. “Julia? Julia, are you awake?”
Isaac. She sees him behind the muslin curtain, a shadow puppet. She pushes herself up and out of the bed, runs her fingers through her hair, thinks a minute.
“I’ll be right there!” She yanks the cover off the bed, takes off her shirt, her bra, wraps herself in the comforter. Better for him to think she’s naked than that she was up to some nocturnal hiking. The comforter is long enough even to hide her muddy feet.
She pads over to the door—wait, what if this is a nightmare too? What if she’s dreaming?
How can she be sure what’s real and what’s not anymore?
Knock it off, Julia. Don’t get all solipsistic.
She takes a deep breath, removes the chair from under the doorknob, takes another deep breath, and opens the door, just wide enough that she can look through the crack.
Isaac wears the same outfit from the day before, complete with wide-brimmed hat. He seems agitated.
“Didn’t you hear the conch shell?” he asks. “Breakfast service started a half hour ago, and we should get an early start if we’re going to make it back before the storm. It’s on track to hit Kapu, and—”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll be there in a minute.”
There’s enough of a pause to hint that this is not the optimal answer. She’s aware that he’s aware of her bare shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” she offers. “It’s so peaceful here I must have slept too deeply to hear the conch.”
He doesn’t seem to believe her, but nods anyway. “I’ll see you then in the dining pavilion. Shortly.”
Passive-aggressive much? She smiles, feels him try to angle a peek inside, shuts the door quickly. Watches his shadow cross the muslin curtain—creak, creak, creak—and then he’s gone.
She wishes she’d been able to get some real sleep; she doesn’t have to look in the mirror to know there are dark circles under her eyes. She’s not going to be at her best—not by a long shot—and she knows she’ll have to be in top form when she meets the Reverend.
There’re more bottles of Jack Daniel’s in her suitcase.
No. Absolutely not.
She resolves herself to a quick shower, stowing a few key items in a lightweight folding backpack she’d brought with her—maybe the GPS phone, a specimen jar in case she can slip away at some point, you never know, you might get lucky—and then, goddammit, she’ll have to wear that smock to breakfast. It hangs accusingly in the armoire, separate from the rest of her clothes, like it’s considering walking off without her.
A strange thought.
But it’s a strange place, isn’t it.
It also strikes Julia that this trek means she’ll be separated from the others, vulnerable. To what, she’s not sure, but she should play it safe.
Julia pulls out the suitcase, reaches under her clothes for the hidden panel. Finds the knife. It’s for cutting away roots, of course, but in a pinch could be used for other purposes.
She slips this into the pocket of the smock. Insurance, just in case.
If the churchwomen were there earlier, they’re gone by the time Julia arrives, and all the food’s on the buffet table, like it was laid out overnight by magical elves. A platter of pineapple, mango, and starfruit, a heated tray containing scrambled eggs that are a bright, deep orange—must be from free-range chickens—thick slices of freshly baked white bread, jars of homemade jam, and some kind of fresh juice, along with coffee and the kind of creamer that doesn’t require refrigeration.
She feels ridiculous, and ignores the stares. The muslin smock is itchy. She chose to wear her hiking boots and thick socks, which, along with the backpack, really complete the look.
Julia grabs a plate and a mug. Most everyone has already had their fill. There’s more of a sense of separateness at the long table, people coalescing into groups. At the far edge, Cooper, Fred, and Larry sit on one side, while Brittany, Alison, Jessica, and Heather sit on the other. The boys wear board shorts, sand dusting their backs, while the girls wear bikinis, their fair skin already starting to bronze, faint tan lines from where their bikini straps have shifted.
“Oh. My. God. Did you see—”
“—he was toast. And then his face, like—”
“I know, right?”
Together they’re a world unto themselves, don’t even look up when Roger accidentally drops a fork. He and Lois have claimed the center, towels draped across the bench to Lois’s right, Roger’s left, a clear signal that they wish to be undisturbed.
Which leaves the other end of the table, with Beth, and Noah (of course), and enough space for her. She wonders if she can just grab a plate and sneak back to her bungalow, eat on the lanai. She puts a slice of pineapple, bread, and a scoop of eggs for protein on her plate. Pours some coffee into her mug—the creamer’s almost gone—and then some juice into a thick glass tumbler.
She feels Noah slightly behind her before she hears him. He has his own coffee mug—empty—and reaches for the jug. Will she ever be rid of him?
“Love the place so much you’ve decided to convert?” he asks.
The tumult of other conversations becomes quieter. They all want to know.
“I have an appointment to see the Reverend this morning,” Julia says. “A relative is buried in the church cemetery, and I’m visiting her grave.”
She and Aunt Liddy had decided there was no point in lying about her ostensible purpose in being there. It’s a true, and great, cover.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Noah says. “I guess this is where I’m supposed to offer my condolences. Please, let me offer my condolences.”
An awkward silence.
There are clinks of forks on china, and the conversations around them resume a normal volume. No one wants the specter of death interfering with their vacation.
“Here, let me carry your plate for you,” he offers, and he takes it from her before she can protest. “You can help me with Beth, okay?” he whispers. “She’s said all of about two words the whole morning.”
He leads Julia to the table, and of course there’s no way now to avoid it without making a bigger scene than the one she’s already made. He places her plate in the empty spot, directly across from Beth, and takes a seat next to it. Julia puts her coffee mug down, then her glass of juice, and settles on the bench.
Beth doesn’t even look up for a simple good-morning acknowledgment. Just scoops eggs onto her fork like she’s sitting alone. Chews silently.
“I think the hype about the storm is just that, hype,” Noah says. “Not even a cloud in the sky this morning. Just a way to keep us all trapped in our cabins.”
There’s a resonance to this that lands oddly, like a joke that’s actually true.
“Except for Julia,” he adds. “She’s headed all the way over to the other side of the island. Maybe we can go with her.”
At this, Beth looks up. “How’d you swing that?”
“She speaks!” Noah announces so loudly that even Roger and Lois glance their way.
“A relative died.” Julia takes a bite of her eggs, hoping to head off any other questions.
“Tourist?”
Julia shakes her head no. Beth stares at her a few moments longer than is comfortable.
&nbs
p; “So what are you up to today?” Noah asks.
“Well, I’m going to the waterfall,” says Beth, surprising them both. “This morning. Screw the storm.”
Noah looks as shocked as Julia feels.
“I mean, that’s why we’re all here, isn’t it? The legendary waters?” Beth picks up a piece of pineapple with her fingers. Reads their expressions. “Oh come on, what are they going to do? Call the cops? Lock me up in some kind of Mormon jail?”
Noah looks unsure, and Julia actually doesn’t know what to say. She takes another bite of scrambled eggs instead.
“They’re not Mormons,” says Noah. “More like Pennsylvania Dutch, I’d say.”
“More like Jim Jones’s followers, is what I’d say,” says Beth. “The way the women don’t even talk to each other? Like they’re not allowed?”
Julia wonders why Beth is so talkative all of a sudden. She decides to play along. “Yeah, that is pretty creepy.”
“It’s creepier than creepy—it’s downright disturbing.”
They’ve entered a conversational territory that’s making Noah obviously uncomfortable, which is maybe Beth’s point. And it is nice to see Noah flummoxed, the facade of Joe Tourist finally pierced.
“And you,” Beth adds, pointing her butter knife in Julia’s direction, “are about to go walking right into the middle of it. I’ll take my chances with the flash floods and the waterfall any day.”
She’s just laying out an excuse for her absence, should anyone notice, which no one might, since she’s made herself unpopular. But that’s why she’s so talkative all of a sudden. Creating her own cover, so she can go traipsing off into the jungle. Noah’s high on Julia’s list of possible competitors, but Beth just notched herself one higher. Probably more capable, too.
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